


The one that I need could be right here by my side

by grasslandgirl



Series: Prompts and Drabbles [9]
Category: American Vandal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, M/M, Prompt Fill, Tumblr Prompt, is it ooc? maybe. is it based on a vague au outline i came up with two years ago? possibly., this one got wildly out of hand and for that i apologize
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-29
Updated: 2020-07-29
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:08:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25594801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grasslandgirl/pseuds/grasslandgirl
Summary: Prompt Fill:Eldonado (Sam Ecklund/ Peter Maldonado, American Vandal) + 5: “Who is she/he?” and 87: “Is that a blood stain?!”---“Uh. Turns out, when you live in a city with a lot of active, superpowered vigilantes and a huge crime scene working both for and against those individuals... reporting on the activity in a major news publication gets you- uh,noticed.”
Relationships: Sam Ecklund/Peter Maldonado
Series: Prompts and Drabbles [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1196569
Comments: 6
Kudos: 19





	The one that I need could be right here by my side

**Author's Note:**

> title comes from Sidekick by WALKTHEMOON, which is on the [superhero eldonado playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/281JWNH9BjXHqPxkC9rZe7?si=cG7oi7l9SxGG83HmbmrUKQ) i've been sitting on since august of LAST YEAR  
> i'll link my tumblr, the ask post this fic is from, as well as the prompt list at the end!!

Dylan was still sitting on the couch when Peter stumbled into their apartment. Peter had hoped, when he considered it while walking up the stairs to their floor, that Dylan would have gone to bed already, or that he’d at least be too absorbed in whatever game or stream he was in the middle of to notice Peter coming home. Or, rather, to notice the _specifics_ about Peter coming home.

As usual, Peter’s luck was nonexistent.

“Bro, hey you’re home later than-” Dylan stopped mid-sentence, and even though Peter was already halfway down the hall towards his bedroom, he could tell that Dylan was gaping at him, wide-eyed and incredulous. “Is that- is that a blood stain?” Peter winced, more at the excitement in Dylan’s tone than anything, and braced himself for an even longer night than he’d already had. “Dude, are you okay? Is it- I mean, I don’t think you’re really one to go beating people up, but- bro.”

“Uh, it’s not mine, Dylan,” Peter managed, trying for a grin as he turned around. Based on Dylan’s grimace, it wasn’t very successful. Peter held up a hand, waving Dylan away as he moved to stand up from the couch, presumably to help Peter hobble around the apartment. Peter didn’t have a _lot_ of dignity left, not after the day he’d had, but he wasn’t that bad off yet. “There was a... incident. An altercation, at work.”

Dylan frowned. Both, Peter guessed, because he didn’t fully understand Peter’s meaning, and because he didn’t believe the little he did understand. Peter sighed and rubbed a hand over his face, trying to push his hair out of his eyes. He tried not to think about how his hand came away a little damp and a little sticky. He rubbed his hand off on his jeans without looking at it, his jeans were already ruined, he was sure, and he didn’t want to think about the blood- and where it came from- more than he had to. 

“Uh,” Dylan said, as Peter begrudgingly sank onto the couch next to him, “I don’t know a lot about your big reporter gig, Pete, but I don’t think a lot of it includes you coming home looking like a character from Call of Duty.” Carefully, Dylan placed a hand on Peter’s shoulder, like he was half-afraid that Peter was going to crumble under his touch.

And though Peter wouldn’t ever admit it, he appreciated Dylan’s gentleness. People wouldn’t guess it, but Peter was lucky to have found such a steadfast friend in Dylan, especially in moments like these.

“Right,” Peter sighed. He let his head fall into his hands, curling his shoulders in on himself. _Maybe,_ he thought, _if I make myself small enough, I can just sit here in a little ball and never have to think about- about any of this anymore._

“Pete?” Dylan’s voice cut through his reverie like an axe. “You’re kind of... dripping on the couch.” Peter groaned. _Of fucking course._ “Not that I like- mind, dude, it’s whatever,” Dylan continued, “but you’re always on me about like not spilling soda on the couch so I thought you’d wanna know, yeah?” 

“Yeah,” Peter mumbled into his hands, trying to build up the strength to lift up his head again. “Thanks Dylan.”

“Sure, dude.” Peter could tell, after years of knowing Dylan, that he wanted to ask Peter a million questions- it was one of the few things they had in common, they were nosy- but was holding back for Peter’s sake. 

The problem with raising his head up, Peter realized, was that it meant he could no longer ignore the immediate pressing concerns at the moment, as well as the future problems he couldn’t help but foresee down the line. Such as, needing to explain what happened to Dylan in a way that wouldn’t make him run to the nearest police officer or gossip rag reporter- whichever came first.

“You know how I report on Supers, right?” He said eventually. “Like, I work for the Oceanside Times, and I have a column about the Super community, who’s active, what they’re doing, and the community response.”

“Uh huh?”

“Uh. Turns out, when you live in a city with a lot of active, superpowered vigilantes and a huge crime scene working both for and against those individuals... reporting on the activity in a major news publication gets you- uh, _noticed.”_

There was a beat, and Peter could almost hear the gears in Dylan’s head turning as he pieced it all together. “Oh, so like-”

“Yeah,” Peter sighed.

“Oh, fuck dude.”

“Yeah, the first couple times it was just a bunch of low level mafia and syndicate guys trying to get insider information on various Supers, like ‘ _what’s Red Light’s real name’,_ and ‘ _where does Captain Cone live’,_ but the third time...” 

Peter still remembered it perfectly. Probably, he told himself, out of habit. He’d been an investigative reporter- professionally or otherwise- since he was old enough to hold a pencil; remembering tiny, specific pieces of information was second nature at this point. 

He’d been cutting through an alleyway to get to the subway station- probably not his best choice, since he’d already been taken hostage once in a dark corner of the city- when he felt a sharp pain in the back of his head. He only remembered the singular thought: _I’m going to miss my train,_ before everything went black. He woke up, tied to a chair in a shitty looking industrial room, and through the haze of pain in his head and the panic of not feeling his inhaler in his pocket anymore, Peter remembered feeling generally unimpressed by the number of cliches the people who’d abducted him had stooped to. 

He’d called out, and a trio of people in dark clothes and face coverings had slunk into the room. They threatened him for a few minutes about information he didn’t know, before something crashed through one of the high, yellowing windows.

Puck. 

One of the most prevalent vigilantes in the city, Puck was easily recognizable with his classic jumpsuit in shades of red, with a mask that stretched over almost the whole of his face in hundreds of thin red lines- like spider web or string, layered over and over itself. 

He floated gently down to the ground with his back to Peter. “Get the fuck out,” he told the men, and they scampered away with almost comical speed. Peter guessed that none of them anticipated being interrupted by a Super. 

It was weird. Peter had spent most of the previous three years studying the Supers (Puck included) as deeply as he could, and through his investigations he’d actually come face to face with a couple of the newer or more minor Supers, who were still figuring out their niche, their relationship to the community and the people and the police- they always thought a journalist was the best person to ask for advice, for reasons Peter still didn’t understand. But he’d never come face to face with Puck.

He’d seen photos, and all the shaky video content on Youtube or Reddit of a red blur in the sky that people swore was Puck, but it was different, seeing him in real life, hearing him talk. 

He was shorter than Peter expected, for one. Narrow, with a lithe build that suggested more agility and speed than strength, but Peter supposed that was to be anticipated from any of the flying Supers. He sounded... younger, though. Peter always assumed that all the established Supers were older- like, real adults older- but Puck sounded... almost Peter’s age. 

After that abrupt rescue, things traveled quickly downhill.

Apparently, the only thing more valuable to criminal organizations than a journalist with information on Supers, was a journalist who was personal friends with a Super. Supposedly.

Peter wasn’t personal friends with Puck, of course; at least- he wasn’t at the beginning. 

But the first save from Puck had been almost six months ago, and the number of times Peter had been attacked or kidnapped or threatened by groups or individuals looking for an in with Puck had grown exponentially over the months. Especially since Puck _kept coming to save Peter._

The first couple times, it had been novel; exciting, even. To finally be the person being saved by the Super, instead of the person interrogating them, to finally have the personal inside scoop on a Super that everyone thought he already had. But by the tenth time Puck came crashing into some basement with a clever quip, Peter was pretty much over it. 

Puck was... a lot. He was funny, and good at what he did, admittedly, though his personal brand of Superheroism leaned more to the side of vigilantism than real heroism in Peter’s book-but that was personal bias and not his place to report on, no matter his first-hand exposure. There was something familiar about him that Peter just couldn’t put his finger on. Like catching a piece of melody and not knowing if it came from a long-since forgotten TV show or a dream. Peter couldn’t help but feel like he knew Puck- but maybe that’s just what he got for endlessly researching and reporting on him and the other Supers in Oceanside. 

Peter tried, again and again, every time Puck crashed in to save his ass, to get any scrap of information he could from him. What his goals were as a Super? How did his powers work, exactly? What fellow Supers did he consider as allies or enemies? And, most importantly, how did he always know when Peter was in trouble, and why did he always come out of his way to save him?

It wasn’t like Peter was anyone important, not really. He was a fairly well-known reporter, but he didn’t let himself get a big head about it- and his coworkers wouldn’t let him either. He was well-known, sure, but he wasn’t a celebrity, or a government official, or someone with any real power or influence in the city, so why him?

And why, even after saving his life over a dozen times, did Puck always hit on him?

The first few times, Peter would admit- if only to himself- were flattering. He’d spent so much time digging into Supers that it felt nice- if slightly unnerving- to have that attention turned back on him. But Puck’s flirting was- obtuse. At best. 

It was all saccharine charm and cheesy pick-up lines and it all rang false to Peter’s ear. Like it was faked or forced or unnatural. He never made Peter uncomfortable, but he couldn’t ever tell if Puck was joking or being genuine. 

It was just all... a lot. Peter was used to being in the background, behind the scenes. It was why he liked reporting, he liked figuring things out and how people ticked, but at the end of the day there wasn’t a whole lot of interest in having the spotlight be on _him;_ he wanted it to be on the work. And the whole _Secret-Sweetheart-to-a-Super_ angle their competitors at the Oceanside Journal were working was taking the public focus away from Peter’s hard-hitting journalism and onto his non-existent love affair with a Super that kept saving his ass. For reasons he _still_ didn’t understand. 

“What happened tonight, dude?” Dylan asked, after Peter had outlined the last six months of his life. “You haven’t ever come home... like. Fucked up, before.”

 _Not this fucked up, at least,_ Peter thought, but didn’t say. He didn’t want Dylan to worry more than he already was.

Wow. Put that on a list of things Peter never thought he’d say.

“Tonight... I don’t know. It was different, I guess. Puck was later than usual which is crazy to say, I know, but it’s like he has some crazy sixth sense for when shit’s going down and he always shows up right before things get... bad. But tonight, he wasn’t there. This one guy had a knife and he was-” Peter felt Dylan tense beside him and was quick to reassure him that he was fine. He’d seen Dylan’s attempts at first aid, and didn’t have any interest in testing them out on himself. “Puck got there, but he was already pretty beat up, more injured than I’d ever seen him, and he got us both out but he-” Peter swallowed against the memory- Puck dropping them both heavily to the ground, his legs giving out underneath them and his head lolling onto Peter’s shoulder. The wounds on his side and his stomach and the cut on his temple that bled, hot and sticky, into Peter’s hair. 

Somehow, despite undergoing six months of torture and horror, that was the most scared Peter had ever felt. The idea of Puck bleeding out beside him, with Peter unable to do anything. Puck was... silly, yeah. And confusing and cheesy and unnerving and inscrutable and familiar and brave and dangerous, _maybe,_ but Peter owed him his life, a dozen times over. 

“He told me he was fine, that I should go and I- fuck.” Peter tugged his hands through his hair again. He had walked back to his apartment in a haze, and the reality of what happened was only just starting to sink in. “I left him there.”

“Pete-”

Peter vaulted to his feet, pacing across the room. “Fuck, I just- I left him there. They were coming after us and I-”

“We can go-”

Peter barely even heard what Dylan was saying. His heart was roaring in his ears, drowning out everything but his twisting, panicked thoughts. “Do I call 911? What would I even say- that a Super saved me and is bleeding out on some street downtown and I left him there? God, fuck, shit I can’t-”

Then, someone knocked at the door. 

Peter froze. His brain quickly ran through all the possibilities: yet another mob boss trying to grill him for information; the same mob boss coming back; one of Dylan’s friends showing up out of the blue; a police officer that saw him leave Puck bleeding in the road; another Super that-

“Pete?” An achingly familiar voice called through the door. _Sam._

But there was something- wrong. He sounded tired, or upset, or- had Peter missed something? He hadn’t checked his phone since- since he left work early that afternoon, had something happened to Sam, too? “Sam?” Peter called, even though he knew it was him. He felt pinned to the floor, frozen in place with his heart in his throat. 

“Pete, hey, just-” There was a horrible hacking cough. Peter stumbled forward, reaching for the door, when Sam said, “Just don’t open the door yet, give me a second.” He sounded pained, out of breath, and Peter hesitated with his hand on the door knob. “I have to tell you something,” Sam said after a second, probably when he realized Peter wasn’t going to open the door unless he said to. “And I don’t- I don’t know how you’re gonna take it, or what’s gonna happen after this, but I- I don’t know what else to do-”

“Sammy-” 

“Pete, you know how you’ve spent all these months trying to figure out Puck’s deal? I...” He coughed again, and Peter’s knuckles went white around the door knob. “I wasn’t completely honest about- about not knowing anything.”

“What are you-”

“I know who he is.” 

Everything clicked into place at once, like the lynch pin in an impossible puzzle where the picture is only clear once it’s all together and you take a step back. It made sense, perfect sense. _Too perfect._ There was no way- no way that... 

“Who is he?”

“Open the door.” 

Peter did. And there he was, in perfect, beautiful impossibility: Sam Ecklund- his best friend, his coworker, the man he’d been (not-so-secretly) in love with for the last three years- in Puck’s bloody red suit. His stringed mask cradled against his chest. 

Thinking about it, that alone should have been a clue. Whenever Peter was struggling to piece together a case, Sam would show up at his apartment armed with dozens of printed out photos related to the case, and a skein of _red string._

He was leaning against the door frame, his familiar half-grin on his face- _that,_ Peter realized, _that’s what always seemed so familiar about Puck, he smiles the same as Sam-_ but there was something sad, uncertain in his eyes that stopped Peter cold.

“I’m sorry-” Sam started to say, but his eyelashes were fluttering and he started to sway, even propped up against the door. 

“Don’t apologize,” Peter mumbled, and grabbed Sam gently around his ribs, tugging him into the apartment. He was still trying to work out what it all meant- How long had Sam been hiding his powers from Peter? How did he always know when Peter was in trouble? Why did it take him until now to come clean about being Puck? How many other people knew the truth? Why did he always flirt with Peter as Puck (but never as Sam)? 

He shoved those thoughts as far back in his head as he could at the moment. He would deal with them later, when his best friend was no longer in danger of bleeding out on his living room carpet. 

“Call- call Gabi,” Sam muttered, and it only took Peter a second to figure it out: Gabi was a nurse and Sam’s best friend from high school, of course she’d know the truth. Of course Sam- Puck- _whoever_ would need someone he trusted to patch him up at the end of the night. Peter just tried not to think about the fact that he’d known Sam for almost as long, and never knew. 

Peter threw his phone at Dylan, who was still sitting on the couch, half astounded and half in awe about what had unfolded over the last ten minutes, and thankfully he caught on quickly enough to start dialing.

Peter did his best until Gabi got there, and between Google, ignoring Dylan’s suggestions, and the little Peter remembered from the one first aid course he took in college, Sam wasn’t in active danger of dying on his floor by the time she arrived. 

With a care and precision that came from years of medical training and many long nights, Peter was sure, of patching Sam up, Gabi had his wounds stitched and bandaged in what seemed like no time flat. Dylan mentioned, innocent as the cat that ate the canary, that he suspected Peter of suffering a few cuts as well, or, _“minor stabs,”_ as he described them, and ignored Peter’s pointed glare with a smug grin as Gabi patched him up too. They both ignored his many protests that he was _fine, thank you very much, I was not about to bleed out._

“I have to go,” she told Peter quietly, after she’d forced Sam to take some heavy duty painkiller and promptly knocked out on Peter and Dylan’s couch. Dylan had (finally) gone back to his room as well, after being convinced that all the excitement was over for the night. “I have a long shift tomorrow, but I’m glad he told you. Even if it wasn’t the best circumstances.” 

“How long...?”

Gabi opened her mouth to answer, before hesitating, her eyes catching on Sam, asleep on the couch behind them. “I think... that’s something he needs to tell you himself.” She smiled sympathetically, and patted him on the shoulder. “I think you guys have a _lot_ to talk about, actually.” And there it was, the infamous _Knowing-Gabi-Smile_ that, according to Sam, made you feel like she knew all your secrets and was deciding whether or not to use them against you.

All in all, Peter decided, Sam wasn’t far off in his description. 

“Thanks, Gabs,” Peter managed to say without sounding too strangled, and she just smiled wider. “Have a good night.”

“You too, Maldonado,” she said with a wink, quietly opening their front door. “You take care of him for a change, huh?”

And with that, she was gone. 

“Right. Right,” Peter muttered to himself.

He collapsed, more than sat, in the crusty old arm chair in the corner of the living room. Realistically, Peter knew he should go to bed, it had been an insanely long day and technically he was still expected at work tomorrow. But he couldn’t get himself to leave Sam alone in the living room. Not after- not after everything.

Exhausted, Peter pulled off his hoodie, crusted with dried blood and who knew what else, and resigned himself to sleeping in his disgusting jeans in the disgusting arm chair. He kicked his shoes off, abandoning them in a pile next to his hoodie on the floor to be dealt with in the morning, and wrapped a blanket around his shoulders as he curled up in the chair. So long as he didn’t think about all the things that may or may not have happened in the chair, it was pretty comfortable.

With the TV off and the curtains closed, there was almost perfect darkness in the living room, with only a handful of lights blinking on Dylan’s PS4 and a couple beams of moonlight shining in from the window above the sink in the kitchen. After his eyes adjusted to the dark, it was just enough for Peter to see Sam’s face. 

He looked so much younger, so much calmer asleep than he did awake. It reminded Peter of what he looked like when they’d first met in college, both of them fresh-faced and exhilarated and terrified out of their minds, with no idea what lay ahead of them. Peter felt ancient and infantile and so, so, terrifyingly uncertain. He wanted to stay up the whole night, on the off chance that if he never went to sleep, he would never have to deal with everything the morning was going to bring, the waterfall of changes he’d- _they’d-_ never recover from. For better or for worse. 

But Peter fell asleep anyway.

Peter woke up with a crick in his neck, sun in his eyes, and the unsettling feeling that someone was watching him. He squinted against the early-morning sunlight, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. Sam was sitting on the couch, blanket wrapped around his shoulders and piled around his knees, and was watching Peter with the quiet, measured expression few people ever got to see. Sam was good at hiding his feelings- _maybe,_ Peter realized, _that’s why I never figured out about Puck-_ and this morning was no exception. Trepidation built in Peter’s stomach as he sat up to face Sam, tucking his own blanket in more securely around his legs. 

He had no idea how Sam was feeling- did he blame Peter for getting hurt? Was he upset Peter finally knew the truth about Puck? Was he angry Peter had left him behind? Had he figured out the truth of Peter’s feelings?

“Morning,” Sam whispered, breaking the uncertain silence.

“Morning.” Dylan was a heavy sleeper, nothing less than a bulldozer tearing through their apartment would wake him up before noon, but Peter still felt the urge to whisper. Like there was some delicate balance in the air, and moving too quickly or speaking too loudly could shatter it.

“About last night, I… I’m sure you have questions-” Sam said after a moment. 

“Yeah,” Peter cut in, “but first I… I’m sorry, Sam.” A flicker of surprise flew across Sam’s face. “I shouldn’t have ever left you like that- you or Puck, I guess- I wasn’t thinking straight and I wanted to turn around as soon as I started running but-”

“Peter-”

“I just don’t want you to think that I don’t care or that I don’t- _appreciate_ everything you did for me. _Both_ you’s. And I understand if you blame me for-”

“Blame you?” Sam interrupted. “Pete, I- I thought you were gonna be pissed at me.” There was something vulnerable, carved open and raw, in Sam’s face that made Peter’s chest hurt. The little voice in the back of his head whispered, _pack it away, think about it later._

“Why would I be…?” Peter breathed out shakily. “I mean, I didn’t love finding out you were a superhero by finding you bleeding out on my doorstep.” Sam’s face tightened as the weak attempt at a joke fell flat, and he hurriedly said, “Sam, nothing that happened last night was your fault.”

“I was late.”

“You came, even though you were already hurt, and I don’t know what happened to you or how you found me or-” Peter bit down on the instinct to beg, finally, for answers. “It doesn’t matter,” he said, “you came, and you got us both out of there even though they nearly killed you in the process-”

“I’m fine,” Sam protested, and Peter leveled an unimpressed stare at him. He’d seen the injuries the night before, even helped Gabi stitch them closed and wrap them up. “Seriously,” Sam argued, “I’m a little sore, yeah, but I heal faster than- than other people. Ask Gabi; in a couple days I’ll be good as new.”

“Right. Still-”

“Still, _you got hurt_ this time, Pete, and I almost didn’t get there soon enough.”

“How did you even know?” Peter challenged. “Any of the times something’s happened, you’re always there- how? Why?”

Sam fidgeted with his blanket. “My... power, I can like, see the tracks of where people have gone. If that makes sense? Like chemtrails, from a plane. And the better I know a person, the clearer and longer their trail is. And I just- I get a vibe when something big happens to people I-” Sam hesitated, if only for a second- “to people I care about,” he finished. “I can feel it, kind of.”

“So whenever I was in trouble-”

“I’d get a vibe and follow your trail to wherever you were.”

“Huh.” It was all so much simpler than Peter had anticipated. “But- why, though?”

Sam stared at him blankly. “I-” A hundred expressions flickered across his face: shock, anger, grief, hurt, worry, hope, despair, frustration, incredulity, and something- something Peter recognized. “Why do you think, Peter?” Sam whispered. Peter recognized his expression because he saw it in the mirror everyday.

The kind of hopeless dedication that comes from being in love with your best friend.

“Oh,” Peter breathed. _Oh._

“Yeah,” Sam whispered. “Is that-”

“It’s you, Sam. _All_ of you. Always has been.”

The grin that broke out on Sam’s face was blinding, lit up by the early morning sunshine, sitting in a beam of sunlight. It was possibly the most beautiful thing Peter had ever seen.

Soon, Peter would have to call in sick to work for both him and Sam. He’d interrogate Sam about the origin of Puck and how he learned to use his powers. He’d have to clean up his apartment and find a way to fix Puck’s costume and try to kick Dylan out of the house for the morning. He and Sam would have to figure out what all this meant, how Sam and Peter were different from _Sam-and-Peter._

But for the moment, Peter just grinned back. 

**Author's Note:**

> thanks so much for reading!! [the ask this fic was inspired by is here,](https://grasslandgirl.tumblr.com/post/625002225948884992/ooooo-eldonado-5-or-87-from-that-pinned-100-prompt) and feel free to [send me more prompts from this list](https://grasslandgirl.tumblr.com/post/624744862840963073/100-prompts-list) to my tumblr: [@grasslandgirl](https://grasslandgirl.tumblr.com/) !!


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